


Good Guinness

by BarPurple



Series: Writer's Block [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An Irish Pub Song - Rumjacks</p>
    </blockquote>





	Good Guinness

**Author's Note:**

> An Irish Pub Song - Rumjacks

He felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck as he walked in. There was a bloody shinty stick on the wall and a tricolour hanging from the ceiling. If his contact thought he was doing himself any favours by meeting here he was in for a shock. The floor was sticky, the beer was overpriced and damn it all the overly-chirpy barman had drawn a sodding shamrock in his Guinness. 

To say that Jim was pissed off when his contact strolled in was an understatement. He’d tried to be professional, business required a level head after all, but the bloke wasn’t offering anything useful. This was a colossal waste of his time. Unless…

“So very sorry Timothy, but Daddy’s had enough of your twaddle.”

The bloke grabbed his wrist and tried to stop him from leaving. Jim grinned and waved a finger in the man’s face.

“Silly, silly. Kiss my shoes and apologise.”

The bloke snorted and cussed him. Finally, now this could be worth his time. He reversed the blokes grip and heaved him to his feet, breaking his nose with a spot on head butt.

The bloke staggered backwards and pulled a gun from the inside of his cheap nasty suit jacket. Jim rolled his eyes and drew his own pistol; two swift shots in the skull took care of the bloke. The whole bar froze at the retorts, and then all hell broke loose.

Eleven minutes later Jim wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and tutted at the smear of blood. He looked down at his suit and swore loudly, seriously, did these cretins not appreciate how much Westwood cost? The bastard who’d come at him with a broken bottle and sliced his side was on the floor groaning, so Jim popped a bullet into his leg as payback. The groaning turned into a satisfyingly low whimper. 

Jim rolled his head on his neck; the gun in his hand seemingly took aim at the noise from behind the bar without any conscious thought on his part. The now not so cheery barman rose slowly from behind the bar, his hands in the air. Jim cocked the gun and snarled; “Anymore shamrocks in the beer and I will skin you. Understand?”

The barman gulped and nodded quickly. Jim pocketed the gun and shot his cuffs with a sniff before strolling toward the back door. On the way past the bar he said over his shoulder; “That’s good Guinness you serve here.”


End file.
